Send Me An Angel
by Freakish Lemon
Summary: A schizophrenic Draco deals with being alone and the things he hears... Rated for one swear and suicide


A/N: Yeah, this is kind of a weird fic… I don't really know what I was going for, and my demented little mind just spit this out. So, if schizophrenia and suicide bothers you, I do not recommend reading this. And I mean no offense to schizophrenics with this fic; I know very little about this mental illness. The only research I've made into this subject were for a very basic essay in health class. So if my inferences are wrong, correct me. And I mean no offense to any religious groups with my angel references (the last fic I wrote involving religion upset some people). Characters do not belong to me. They are property of Rowling. And the song "Send Me an Angel" does not belong to me, it belongs to the Scorpions. Flames will be used to make churros…. On with the fic…

Send Me An Angel

By Freakish Lemon

**The wise man said just walk this way**

**To the dawn of the light**

**The wind will blow into your face**

**As the years pass you by**

**Here this voice from deep inside**

**It's the call of you heart**

**Close your eyes and you will find**

**The passage out of the dark**

It's empty here. There's no one, nothing. The silence is too loud…it's too loud…it hurts. It pounds into my head and reverberates in my skull.

Everyone's gone. They took them away; took away my parents: my father for murder and alliance with the Dark Lord, and my mother for drug usage and child abuse. They left me alone, didn't even leave someone to keep my company. Even the house-elves have left.

Alone.

I suppose they must have thought I would stay with a friend or a relative…or someone. I don't have any friends. They should know that. They should know I was not allowed to have friends. And as for relatives…I don't know of any that haven't been arrested for dabbling in the dark arts.

Or maybe they thought, being nearly 17 years old now, that I would be able to survive the summer alone. Ha.

I sit on the rich dark carpet in the corner of the now dusty, now unkempt library. I watch dust float in and out of red sunbeams that burn in from the eastern windows. My only companions. The yellowed books upon dusty shelves. The windows have been pried open, but I can't hear anything outside. There are no birds. There is a tree just outside the window, but no wind stirs it. No creatures stir its boughs.

Alone.

Well, about as alone as I can be.

I hear footsteps; going down the halls, up the stairs, running, creeping, stomping in angry bouts…. Some are the light clip clop of women's shoes. Some are the heavy clomp of men's work-boots, or the light pattering of barefoot children. They stop and start again, and stop and start, and stop and start, and stop and start…closer. Always closer. 

I know they are not real; try to convince myself that they don't exist. That I'm alone.

…Alone. 

Perhaps that's why I've locked the doors. I fear them, these phantom footsteps on the edge of my perception. I know not what they will do when they reach me. I cower and wrap my arms about my knees to cease my trembling. I bow my head and close my eyes, and wish it all away.

**Here I am**

**Will you send me an angel**

**Here I am**

**In the land of the morning star**

**The wise man said just find your place**

**In the eye of the storm**

**Seek the roses along the way**

**Just beware of the thorns**

The footsteps stop. My eyes open, head still buried in my arms, reluctant to look up, afraid that the walkers and the runners were at the door. I shake silently in the shadow, hoping to whatever gods were listening that they had not come, that they were gone.

I jump as I feel a touch on my arm, unable to keep a whimper from escaping my throat. Panic threatens to choke me, threatens to drive me into a madness that I will not emerge from.

I take several deep breaths, forcing the panic down, deeply hidden. A small voice in the back of my mind tells me to look up. Look up. Look up. I wonder. Did the Ministry send someone? And unrealistic hope swells in my breast, but just as quickly squelches itself.

What if it is those who make the footsteps? Or some other unnamed horror that does not exist, but cannot be ignored? Fear grips me again, knowing that I will not know unless I raise my head.

It pulls me, this curiosity. Yanks my puppet strings and lifts my head up. Opens my eyes so I see.

An old man sits cross-legged in front of me. I blink, unable to do more than study him.

His beard is white, faded with the long years of his life, and drapes down his chest and into his lap with an almost tattered elegance. His wizened pale face is wrinkled to match his thin hands. I know naught of the color of his robes, save for they may have once been a lovely blue, but had been stained and worn beyond recognition. 

An image of that fool Headmaster, that Albus Dumbledore, springs forth in my mind, and the stark contrast between the two sends a shiver down my spine.

I amazes me how mistaken the wizarding world is. They all think, they all see the Headmaster as a kindly old man. I may hear imaginary things, but I am not deaf to reality. I hear them. "He's completely mad, but he's brilliant." Mad?  He's completely sane, too sane for the good of the people around him. And brilliant? That is still in debate… for no one ever specifies _how_ he is brilliant. But I know. I can see it in the old man's eyes.

Blue, clear, sharp as gleaming knives, piercing things normal vision cannot fathom. That is the secret to this man's "brilliance." They see through disguise, they see through illusions, and they can see into your mind… they've seen into my mind. They hide behind a mask of mirth, but beneath they seek out secrets: things a mind like his should not know. I force myself not to cower when that gaze is upon me. He knows; he sees. 

This man doesn't, this old man in front of me. He can't. He is blind.

His eyes, a soft gentle gray beneath a milky film, do not see. He needs to be told; he cannot pry into a person's mind with that soft gaze. Anything I wish to stay in head will stay there. Not so with the Headmaster; not so with Dumbledore.

This old man can help me. Dumbledore could not.

Dumbledore would not. I know he has the authority; could send for doctors or experts or what have you.  He could have helped me, but did not; knew that if these voices left and these images vanished I could find a way to show everyone what he truly is.

He is a liar. He lied to me. He took me to his office and told me he could help me; told me he could take it all away. And at 11 years old, I believed him.

But he did nothing for me. He put a spell on me to keep others from noticing my outbursts, my cries in the dark of night when footsteps come closer. No one knew; no one even suspected. He created an image of me, as he had seen my father; a selfish, conceited bastard with no heart. _He_ made the person everyone knows as Malfoy.

This man, sitting across from me with beard of white and eyes of gray, will help me. I know he will.

**Here I am**

**Will you send me an angel**

**Here I am**

**In the land of the morning star**

**The wise man said just raise your hand**

**And reach out for the spell**

**Find the door to the promised land**

**Just believe in yourself**

**Here this voice from deep inside**

**It's the call of your heart**

**Close your eyes and you will find**

**The way out of the dark**

"Who are you?" I ask. A thin smile crosses the old man's face.

"I can be many people,' He replies, vague but the answer satisfies me, though I cannot explain why.

"Can you help me?"

"Only if you can help yourself." I do not understand, and tears fall unbidden from my eyes.

"Can you help me?!" I nearly scream. My hands release my knees and pound into the soft carpet, making barely a sound and not hurting enough.

The old man closes his sightless eyes and sighs, his head lowering slightly, as if in defeat. He does not look up for a few minutes, all the while my eyes plead pathetically. Their tear trails keep running down my face. I fear he has fallen asleep, or worse, has died in my presence; rejecting my pleas in the worst possible way.

But he looks up. That fear, at least, is squelched.

He sighs again. I can see the hesitation  in his face, and I wonder what his reply will be.

"What is it that you need help with?" He finally answers, his low voice soft and calm. I want to fall into his voice, into calm and low murmurings that hide the ever-present footsteps that have just now stopped.

But  my anger at his question keeps me from falling under this spell of calm.

"Don't you know?!" I scream, beyond caring if anyone at all could hear me. "Don't you know what's wrong with me?!"

The old man shakes his head, sadly. The light, drifting in from the windows, dims. Another sob chokes its way through my throat.

"Why don't you know?!" My voice cracks under the heavy weight of desperation. I can't take this much longer. The silence around the room is thick, and more frightening and ominous than the footsteps ever were.

"Young sir, I cannot lend my assistance if I do not know what is wrong. It is obvious you are in some great distress, but unless you tell me the problem, that is all I can determine."

I laugh; a high, tight, maniacal laugh that holds no mirth in its sound. My hysterics rise in volume and pitch, but abruptly stop as I inhale for breath. I resort to crying once more.

"They…" I begin, but the words are lost somewhere between brain and mouth. "I can hear them."

"Who?" A deep inhalation of air before I tell this man the secret that has been hidden for so long.

"Them." My voice shakes. "They walk and run and skip down the halls and through the streets and…" I stop. I'm rambling; mustn't ramble. "They…they keep coming closer and closer…" My voice rises to a panicked tone once more. "And I don't know who they are or what they want! Why won't they leave me alone?" I half moan the last question, the fear of the thought of the footsteps causes me to cower again.

"Ah," the old man says, thin lips forming a thin smile. "Them." He pauses, head bent in thought.

"You know them?" I whisper. The sound barely registers in my own ears, but he must have heard me because he nods. His sightless eyes search out, then meet my own, and I cannot guess how he knows where my face is.

"No one really knows what they are," he tells me, and I do not blink as he talks. "Some have said they are demons trying to take a person down to hell for the devil's own use. Some have said they are spirits searching for a body to reinhabit. Other have expressed less…enjoyable speculations. But I know what they want." My eyes widen in anticipation, in hope of an answer I have long sought.

"They want you."

"Me?" My voice is weak and quivers in my throat. Shivers crawl slowly up and down my spine. Trembling wracks my body. It suddenly feels cold.

"Yes. Either to steal you away to hell, or to take over your body, or whatever thing you could imagine… I cannot say which they want; which they would do."

"Is there…is there nothing that can save me?"

"There is one thing…but it is a dear price to pay." I do not have to say I will do it; I do not have to say that the price cannot be too high. The old man nods once more…

…And draws a knife from beneath his tattered robes. Its sheath and handle are ornamented in wrapping patterns of silver and a red metal of dark red that I do not recognize, curling ever always in a design that draws the eye to where sheath and handle meet; where a sliver of bright metal in tantalizing sharpness peeks out.

Almost unconsciously, I reach out and accept the beautiful weapon and, with a deep intake of breath, unsheathe the glittering blade.

My tears stop and dry upon my face as I behold what is to be my doom; my face, reflected in its smooth surface. A flowing script engraved into the steel, caressing its way along the blade. A touch of sadness lies upon my heart. I know not what the script says, or even what people it is from. A sinking feeling inside tells me that they are a people long departed from this earth.

Taking my silence for uncertainty, the old man speaks.

"Draw blood. It will call to you a savior, an angel if you will, who can take you to a safe place." I nod, though I know he can't see me. Doubt then enters my mind; questions my judgment. I glance at the blade in my hand. Its shining brilliance reassures me.

I watch as the steel slices through the flesh of my arm; a clean cut, a fresh line of red. A crimson trail hypnotizes me. My eyes follow its slow journey across my white skin.

Another slice, another scarlet streak, and another. I wait.

Footsteps outside my door return. They're close.

There's a knock on the door… and no savior has yet come.

Panic rises in my breast, unable to be squelched. Another knock. Silence. Another…

Fear moves my limbs; more blood, more life for this deceiving blade to drink. The angel has not come. More blood, more red clouds reality from my eyes. The angel has not come. My body should hurt, there should be pain, but all I feel is a pounding in my ears and the furious beating of my heart…and the echo of each knock at the door that resounds in and about the walls of my mind. The angel has not come…

…and the door is opening.

The dagger, greedy for more of my life force to mar its shining surface, imbeds itself in my abdomen. I gasp suddenly, unable to breathe.

Behind the old man looms a creature; a beautiful haunting figure, whose once shining gown is now faded and tattered around the hems. Its dark hair floats down around its face and drapes down its back between two large gray wings. I can imagine running my hand over those wings, feeling the downy feathers between my fingers.

The figure lifts its head to look at me, and I cannot as yet fathom what gender this creature could possibly be. But as its eyes behold me, I feel a sliver of some unknown emotion slice through me.

The angel blinks pale eyelids over empty spaces where eyes should be; black holes, void spaces where once one could see this creature's soul. I feel I should be afraid, I should be disturbed by these empty sockets.

But I'm not.

The angels holds its pale thin hand towards me, ignoring the old man. I look to him, questioning. He smiles that thin smile and nods. I smile, a sort of happiness rising in me; a happiness I have not felt since before I can remember.

I raise my stained hand and grip the creature's own.

And I laugh. 

***********************

(a clip of an article from the Daily Prophet)

Draco Malfoy (age 16), son of the currently imprisoned Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy, was found dead in the upper library of the family's manor yesterday evening. Apparent cause of death: suicide.

******************************

**Here I am**

**Will you send me an angel**

**Here I am**

**In the land of the morning star**

**~Fin~**

A/N:  Song choice may not have been so good….I was trying to portray the sort of bittersweet desperation that the song has…..The fic sounds better with the song on….Did I do alright? Feedback? Reviews please? *holds out collection tin*


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